Touched by an Angel
by Amory Sparkly Bat
Summary: When a truckload of stone angels arrives at the Cave, Peter figures it's just another day at the grind. It can't be any weirder than the old blue police box they found stuck on the Statue of Liberty! When the angels start to move, however, Peter and Neal get a taste of a whole new world-and a new reality, too!


**Title:** Touched by an Angel  
**Author:** Amory Puck (**pucktheplayer**)  
**Rating**: PG  
**Warnings:** mild language, gen  
**Word Count:** 7,227  
**Summary:** When a truckload of stone angels arrives at the Cave, Peter figures it's just another day at the grind. It can't be any weirder than the old blue police box they found stuck on the Statue of Liberty! When the angels start to move, however, Peter and Neal get a taste of a whole new world-and a new reality, too! (White Collar/Dr. Who Crossover-set in Season 4 while Peter is working in the FBI evidence warehouse.)

**Author's Notes:** Written for the 'shipwrecked' square of my H/C Bingo Card on LJ!

o o o

A steady beeping filled the warehouse as a delivery truck backed into the Cave. Neal decided to make use of the entrance in an attempt to avoid anymore confrontations with dear Agent Patterson, sauntering through the cargo bay like he owned it, whistling as he walked.

"Okay, stop!" he heard Peter call out. "Far enough."

The driver of the truck put it in park, and the whole things sort of rattled in a way that made Neal hope that it was full of iPhones not Michelangelos. It definitely wasn't packed well, whatever it was.

"Hey, Peter, how's it going?" he said as his friend appeared from behind the truck.

Peter just grimaced, shaking his head. "You don't want to know. I don't think I'm going to be able to take lunch today. We got a surprise shipment in and Patterson says either I get them all tagged, sorted, and boxed up by six or I stay the night."

Neal's brows shot up in surprise. "Can he make you do that?"

"Apparently so," Peter said grimly, wiping at the sweat beading on his forehead. "I'm starving though. Tell me you got something that I can eat without chopsticks."

"Lucky you, I picked up sandwiches at the deli," Neal replied, holding out the bag. "Chicken salad."

Peter took the bag, pulling out a sandwich and biting into it like he hadn't eaten in days. "Man, this delivery is killing me."

"Anything I can help with?" Neal questioned, looking curiously toward the truck.

"MMhm ooo eeayat een aawhnle ooo ulp iweeenith um."

"Excuse me?" Neal said, grimacing a little as a piece of chicken salad dropped from Peter's mouth to the concrete floor.

"I said, you might be able to help identify them." He wiped at his mouth with the back of his sleeve, making Neal cry silently within. "Here, come take a look." He headed off toward the truck and Neal trailed behind, taking a neat bite of his own sandwich.

"Wait until you get a look at these things." Peter stood aside, making room for Neal to gaze into the dim truck.

He'd been right that the contents of the truck weren't well packed. In fact, they weren't packed at all—and they most certainly weren't iPhones.

"They're… angels," Neal said, cocking his head as he studied the three massive statues. They were all identical, androgynous angels wrapped in togas, wings tucked behind them, hands covering their faces. They should have beautiful—the work was flawless—but, for some reason, looking at them made Neal feel kind of… sick, for lack of a better word.

"Yup," Peter said, stuffing the last bite of sandwich into his mouth. "They're angels. And there are twelve more of 'em on aisle six. "Found them in a vault full of stolen art. We only had one delivery truck, so we had to make five trips. Hauling them out was a real bitch. Had to drag the things all by myself."

"The truck driver didn't help you?" Neal asked, frowning when Peter shot him a strange look.

"Truck driver? There was no truck driver."

Neal's brow furrowed. "Of course there was a truck driver. I saw him five minutes ago. He backed the truck in."

"Don't be stupid. *I* backed the truck in," Peter said as he began to roll up his sleeves. "I guess it's time to get back to work. I promised El I'd be home for dinner."

"But I saw him," Neal protested, eyes still locked on the statues. "The truck driver, I saw him. Just a minute ago. He went into the back of the truck."

"Then you're seeing things," Peter said, shaking his head. "There was no truck driver, Neal. I'm the only one here."

Any other day, Neal would have shot his friend an irritated look, but, for some reason, he just couldn't take his eyes off the statues. It was like if he looked away, just for an instant, something would happen. Something very, very bad.

"What do you think? Renaissance period?"

"No," Neal said slowly, trying to ignore the creeping sensation rising up in his gut. "They're carved out of concrete. It's unusual. From their design, they should be marble, but they're definitely concrete. Or rock, I should say. Common stone. Not the kind of thing the Renaissance masters spent much time dabbling in."

"So what are they?" Peter asked.

"I don't know," Neal replied, his heart start to pound a little too fast as he continued to stare at their hidden faces.

"Why are they covering their faces with their hands?" Peter questioned. "Some sort of weird Catholic shame thing?"

"They're crying," Neal replied automatically, then frowned. Where had that come from? He shifted from foot to foot, fighting down a strange urge to run. "I mean, I don't know that for sure. It… It could be a weird shame thing. But I think… I think that they're crying."

*Danny, don't blink…* Neal started at the thought, his heart hammering full out in his chest now. A trickled of sweat ran down his face as he stared at the angels. 'Danny, don't blink?' Where had that come from?

A shiver ran through Neal's body and he swallowed nervously, mouth dry as he stared at the angels. What was wrong with him? It was the middle of the day, for God's sake! The sun was shining, the birds were singing. There was no reason to feel like a little boy hiding from the monster in his closet. There was nothing hiding in the shadows waiting to jump out at him—

BAM!

Neal leapt half a foot in the air at the sudden sound, letting out a little shout. "What was that?!"

Peter looked at him oddly. "Hey, relax. Something probably fell off one of the shelves. It happens sometimes."

Neal licked his lips nervously, glancing around, then gave a slow nod. "Yeah," he said shakily, feeling a little embarrassed. "You're right. I don't know what's wrong with—Oh my God."

"What's wrong?" Peter asked, sounding worried. "Neal are you okay?"

"It moved," Neal whispered, wrapping his arms around himself like that would actually protect him. "The angel… It moved."

Peter glanced in the truck, then back at Neal, a strange look on his face. "Yeah, sure… Maybe you need to go home and get some sleep, buddy. I think you're seeing things."

"No," Neal said, voice an octave higher than usual. "I'm not. Look. The one on the left. Its arm."

"What about its arm?" Peter questioned, squinting into the truck.

"It's using its arm to cover its eyes," Neal said, voice growing a little frantic. "Don't you see it, Peter? It's using its *arm*!"

"So what?" Peter said with a shrug, and Neal had to resist the urge to shake him.

"So, they were all using their hands, Peter! You said it yourself: 'Why are they all covering their faces with their hands?' They were all using their hands! It *moved,* Peter! It *moved*!"

"No way," Peter said, though there was a hint of doubt to his words. "It's not possible. We just didn't notice it."

"I know what I saw, Peter, and so do you!" Neal said frantically, keeping his eyes latched on the statues.

BAM!

This time Neal didn't take his eyes off the angels, but Peter spun around. "Is somebody playing some sort of trick here?" he said in an annoyed voice. "Is that you, Jones? Because it's not funny! If Patterson finds out, he will definitely write me up!"

*Danny, don't blink!* "It's not a trick, Peter," Neal whispered. "Don't take your eyes off them. Don't even blink."

BAM!

"Okay, that's it!" Peter shouted, grabbing Neal's arm. "Come on, we're going to find out who's behind this."

"No!" Neal cried out as Peter drug him, stumbling, along. "No, I have to look at them! I can't stop looking at them!"

BAM!

"You can look at them later, Neal," Peter snapped. "After I figure out what's going on, you can study them to your little heart's content." He came to a sudden stop, staring down an aisle. "What the hell?"

Neal shoved Peter away, glaring angrily at the man. "Don't you ever drag me like that again, Peter!"

"Just look, Neal!"

BAM!

Neal jumped at the sound, eyes widening as he took in the scene. In the middle of the aisle was an enormous packing crate, but that wasn't really what mattered, considering that the shelves all around them were piled high with boxes. What mattered was that *this* box was glowing.

"Oh my God," Neal whispered. "Please tell me that's some confiscated stadium lights or something."

"No," Peter said, voice shaky. "Actually, it's a suspected terrorist threat."

"What, like a nuclear weapon?" Neal shouted, stumbling backward. "Isn't the military supposed to deal with that shit?"

"No, nothing like that!" Peter said, making a face at Neal. "It's not a bomb. Well, they're pretty sure it's not a bomb. But they found it sitting on the Statue of Liberty, so they figured it was some kind of terrorist warning. Why else would someone stick a vintage British police box on the top of a national monument?"

"Wait, it was *on* the Statue of Liberty?" Neal said in disbelief.

Peter nodded. "That's right. In her crown. Can you believe that?"

Neal let out a huff of laughter. "No, I really can't. Come on, let's open it."

"Open it?" Peter said. "Are you out of your mind? We're not opening it."

"Yes, we are," Neal said shortly, heart pounding in his chest as he stared at the glowing crate.

"You should listen to him!"

Neal and Peter both jumped at the sudden voice.

"What the hell?" Peter said, a look of panic on his face. "Did you hear that?"

"I heard it," Neal said grimly, kneeling down next to the box. "Now help me get this thing open!"

"Are you insane? It's a talking, glowing crate! We are not opening a talking, glowing crate."

"Oh yes we are," Neal said, gritting his teeth as he yanked at the board. "Peter, I need your help!"

"Why should I help you?"

"Because if you don't, we'll both be dead!" Neal shouted, yanking at the box as hard as he could. They'd both be dead? What? Wow, he was really losing it today.

Peter just stood there for a moment, a look of disbelief on his face, then he sighed and moved around to the other side of the box. "Just for the record, I think you've lost your mind and I have no idea why I'm helping you with this!"

"Fine," Neal snapped back. "On the count of three, pull. One, two, THREE!"

Peter let out a loud grunt as they both yanked as hard as they could. After a moment the wood made a snapping noise as it separated from the nails. Moving together, they hauled off the top, tossing it to the side.

Laying on its back, face up, was some kind of blue telephone booth, definitely vintage, like Peter had said. Of course, it was also glowing.

Neal squatted down next to it, reaching out cautiously to touch it. *Danny, don't blink!*

"Whoa!" Neal let out a cry, tumbling backward onto the concrete, as the booth's door sprung open.

"FBI, don't move!" Peter shouted as, literally out of nowhere, a young man's head popped through the doors.

"Oh, hello there!" he said, a big cheerful grin on his face as he stared up at a very armed Peter. "I'd hold up my hands, but the gravity seems to be off and I'm sort of hanging here." He glanced around a couple of times, giving Neal a wink, then turned his smile back on Peter. "I don't suppose you'd go and tip my box up the right way?"

"I don't suppose I would," Peter snapped back, nodding at his gun. "I'm not afraid to shoot!"

"Of for the love of God, Peter!" Neal said, pushing himself to his feet. "There's a Brit in a police box found on the Statue of Liberty in your evidence warehouse somehow hanging on the edge of something when he should be standing on the ground and you're waving a gun at him? Help me tip up the damn box!"

"See, I like you already," the man said, giving him another wink. "You heard him, Peter. Help him tip up the damn box!"

Neal grabbed the edge of the crate, grunting as he struggled to lift it. Whatever that police box was made out of, it was damn heavy.

Peter looked back and forth between Neal and the man for a moment then let out a loud sigh. "Fine, fine," he said, stuffing his gun back into its holster. "But I swear to God, if this is all one big trick, I'm putting you back where you came from, Caffrey."

"Trust me, Peter," Neal said through gritted teeth. "This is not my kind of prank."

"On three. One, two, THREE!"

"GERONIMO!" the man shouted as his fingers slipped off the edge. A few seconds later they heard a loud thump. "I'm fine!" a voice called out. "Just fine! Landed in the garden! The bubble gum tree needs replanting, but I'm fine."

"What the hell?" Neal murmured as he stared into the box, eyes widening at what he saw. "No way," he whispered. "No *way*!"

"What?" Peter said sourly. "Did your new boyfriend disappear?"

"It's bigger on the inside!"

Peter's brow furrowed. "Wait, what?"

"Look!" Neal said, gesturing for Peter to come around to the other side of the crate. "The box is bigger on the inside!"

"Nothing's bigger on the inside. It's called physics…" Peter's words trailed off as he came to a stop in front of the door, mouth dropping open. "No way…"

"Never say no way!" came a cheerful British voice.

Neal jumped as the strange man appeared in the door, that big, stupid grin still on his face. He looked like a reject from a BBC soap opera, dressed in corduroy pants, a jacket with elbow patches and a bright pink bow-tie, with his hair was sticking up everywhere. There was a smear of dirt of his face and a branch sticking out of his pocket. Apparently he really had landed in the garden.

"Hello there," he said, hopping out of the box and slamming the door shut behind him, much to Neal's disappointment. "My name's the Doctor," he blew a bubble with his gum. "I've had a little trouble with my ship. I was heading for Christmas Eve on Nahbla's third moon—the Nahbloolans have some astounding tribal rituals to celebrate good old Saint Herawamanshnikalus—but something went wrong with my engines and I ended up here." He glanced around, sniffed, stuck out his tongue for a moment, then frowned, looking a little put off. "Just where *is* here, exactly?"

"Uh… New York City," Neal said, not sure if that was the answer this doctor-man was looking for or not.

"Oh, I do love New York City!" the Doctor said, clapping his hands together like a little kid. "Americans are adorable! A little quick to go for the guns," he reached out, patting Peter on the cheek, "but likable all the same! Might I ask *when* I am?"

"Well, it's just after noon—"

"Yes, yes, but what year?"

What year? This guy didn't know what year it was? Of course, he also had a box that was bigger on the inside and claimed to have been heading for an alien moon, so maybe Neal shouldn't be so surprised. "It's, uh, 2013."

"Really?" the Doctor said, looking shocked. "From the look of you, I was thinking it was early 1960s, at latest." He moved his face uncomfortably close to Neal's, giving another big sniff. "Are you a time traveller, too?"

Was he a *time traveller*?!

"No," Peter said dryly, "Neal just dresses like he's from a time long since past."

"Ah yes," the Doctor said, looking satisfied. "That's what it is. Sy Devore was such a fabulous man. Always beat me at cards!"

"You knew Sy Devore?" Neal asked in disbelief.

"Oh, I know everyone," the Doctor replied, waving the words away. "So tell me, how long have I been in this building? I was knocked out when the engines went mad and I think the TARDIS got a little out of sync with reality. I was only out for about five minutes, but since my ship was nailed in a crate, I'm assuming a little more time has passed out here? Please tell me I didn't miss Halloween. I do love dressing up."

"Well, they got your… ship… off the top of the Statue of Liberty about three weeks ago," Peter said, wincing a little at the word 'ship.' "Tell me… Doctor… are you some kind of alien?"

"I am indeed!" he said proudly. "Time Lord to the core, this one is. Last of my kind! *Two* hearts! I belong a zoo! Anyhoo, it's been nice chatting, but I really need to figure out why my TARDIS crashed. I have a nasty lump on the back of my head that I'd rather not repeat."

"Right…" Peter said slowly, shaking his head. "Okay… Guess we need to get back to the angels, anyway."

Neal froze, his entire body going tight, his breath coming too fast. The angels. Oh, God, the *angels*. How could he have forgotten about the angels?!

"Are you okay?" the Doctor asked, looking at Neal with what could only be described as suspicion. "You're looking rather peaky."

"Peter…" Neal whispered, a trickle of sweat running down his face. "We have to get back to the—"

*Danny, don't blink!*

"What was that?" the Doctor demanded, looking worriedly back and forth.

"What was what?" Peter asked, frowning. "I didn't hear anything."

*Danny, don't blink!*

"How could you not have heard that?" the Doctor snapped, glaring at Peter like he'd committed some sort of terrible offense. "How could you not have heard it?"

"Because it was in my head," Neal whispered, staring at the Doctor with wide eyes. "In my head… Danny, don't blink."

The Doctor stared hard him for a long moment, and for an instant Neal thought he saw a flash of comprehension, but then it was gone so quick it was as if it had never existed at all.

"You're afraid, Neal," the Doctor said softly, reaching out and putting a hand on his arm. "Why are you afraid?"

"How do you know that?" Neal asked, swallowing down the lump in his throat.

"I can feel it," the Doctor replied. "Neal, you have to tell me. Why are you so afraid?"

Neal shook his head rapidly. "I… I don't know. I mean, it's stupid."

"Fear is never stupid, Neal. Fear is a survival instinct, and if there's one thing humans are good at, it's surviving. Tell me why you're afraid, Neal."

Neal yanked off his hat, kneading it nervously with his hands. "It's just… these statues. They… they moved. I mean, I think they moved. I don't know for sure. But when I look at them… When I look at them, I can't look away. I mean I *can*, but I won't. I won't, because I know that if I look away… even for a second…" He shook his head. "I'm sorry. It's crazy. I don't know what's wrong with me today."

"What do the statues look like, Neal?" the Doctor said in a low voice. "I need you to tell me what they look like."

"Well," Neal said slowly… "They look like angels. Crying angels. They look like…" He paused, a sick feeling washing over him as his eyes drifted behind the Doctor to the end of the aisle. "They look like *that.*" He pointed and the Doctor whirled around, yanking some sort of glowing stick out of his pocket and waving it madly around like it was a sword.

"What the hell?" Peter shouted as he stared at the enormous concrete angel crouched at the end of the aisle as if it was ready to spring.

"Don't take your eyes off of it," the Doctor said in a low voice. "Whatever you do, don't look away. Don't even blink. They're called the Weeping Angels. They can't move while you're looking at them. But you can't let them touch you. One touch and you'll be hurled back in time. And they've grown in power over the last few years, even since they fell into the void. Sometimes if they touch you, they hurl you so far back that you never even existed."

"Like the truck driver," Neal whispered.

"I told you, Neal, there was no damn truck driver!"

"Yes there was," the Doctor said shortly. "You don't remember him, because he never existed. It's interesting, though, that you do, Neal."

"That I do what?" Neal asked distractedly, eyes locked on the angel.

"That you remember the truck driver. Are you sure you're not a time traveler?"

"Yeah," Neal said through gritted teeth. "I'm pretty sure I'm not a damn time traveler! I'm a con man, but I'm not that good! I can't cross realities!"

"What do we do?" Peter asked in a low voice. "Can we kill it?"

"It's not alive," the Doctor said, shaking his head. "Not when you can see it. It's just stone."

"Okay…" Peter said slowly. "So can we, I don't know, knock it into pieces?"

"Not easily," the Doctor said. "That's not ordinary rock. They're only vulnerable when near starvation. At that point, the stone begins to crack and break down. At that point, you might be able to destroy one. But if it's moving around like that, then this one has a full tummy. We won't be able to destroy it."

"No wonder they didn't need any packing crates," Neal said.

"They?" the Doctor said sharply. "There's more than one?"

"Yeah," Peter said, looking very unhappy. "There's fifteen in total, all in this warehouse."

"Oh, well, if it's only fifteen of them," the Doctor said in a cheerful voice.

Peter looked over at him hopefully. "We can beat fifteen?"

"No we can't beat fifteen!" the Doctor snapped back. "I was being facetious."

"Okay," Neal said, taking a deep breath. "Well, what's the plan then?"

The Doctor frowned. "Well, for starters—"

"Neal, look out!"

Peter's terrified face was the last thing Neal saw.

o o o

Neal let out a soft moan as he pushed himself into a sitting position. Wow, time travel sure left you achey. God help him if he'd ended up somewhere before aspirin. Or modern plumbing.

"Put your hands up or I'll shoot!"

Neal jerked as he felt the barrel of a gun pressing into the back his neck. Oh, hell.

"Hey now," he said in what he hoped was a soothing voice. "No need to shoot. I… I'm just lost, that's all. If you could give me some directions, I'll be on my way."

"You're lost in my bedroom?" The words had a tone of disbelief to them.

Neal blinked. Now that his eyes had adjusted to the dark, he could see that he was, in fact, in a bedroom. A kid's bedroom for that matter. Wow, that had to look great. Yippee, he'd get to serve prison time in the past, too. He glanced around, ready to make a break for the exist, then his breath caught as his eyes fell on a cork board covered in sloppy drawings. No way. No *way.* It couldn't be…

"Okay, kid," Neal said flatly. "You can drop the act. I know that's a water gun you've got pushed to my head."

"Dammit," the boy muttered, scuttling back as Neal turned around to face him, dropping the flashlight he'd been holding to the ground.

The kid couldn't have been more than ten or eleven, dressed in pajamas with cartoon policemen on them. His hair was a shaggy mess, dark curls falling into his bright blue eyes, and the stubborn look on his face said a lot about his personality.

Neal always had been a stubborn kid.

Young Neal stared up at him with wide eyes, the scowl on his face not enough to hide his fear. And why wouldn't he be afraid? A grown man had appeared out of nowhere in his bedroom in the middle of the night. A grown man had appeared, and he hadn't even bothered to call out for help.

His mother really had been a bitch.

"Don't worry," Neal said, setting the neon green water pistol down on the desk. "I swear, I'm not here to hurt you. I… I had an accident, and I ended up here. I'll be on my way, okay? No need to make a scene." He turned, ready to head out the door and go freak out in the alley, but young Neal sort of danced in front of him, holding out a hand. "Wait… Are you… Are you an angel?"

Neal froze at the words. "Excuse me?"

Young Neal stared up at him with wide eyes. The smirk was gone, but the fear was still there, and Neal was starting to get the sinking sensation that the man who suddenly appeared in his bedroom wasn't the thing this young version of him was really frightened of.

"I… I've been praying. I thought maybe God had sent you to take it away."

Praying? He'd been praying? Neal had never been religious, not even as a kid. What could possibly have Little Neal so scared that words to God were his only resort?

"Take what away?" Neal said evenly, trying not to show just off balance he was. Con man skills really were universal.

Young him dropped his eyes, looking embarrassed. "My mom says it's just a statue. But I know it's not. I know because…" His voice trailed off.

"Because why?" Neal prompted in a low voice.

Young Neal looked back up, eyes filled with tears. "Because it came out of my picture."

"Came out of your picture?" Neal said, brow furrowing.

Little Neal nodded. "I had this dream, and this angel was in it. It was really pretty, so I drew it. It was just a picture. But then… then it came out. I mean, I didn't see it come out," he added quickly. "That would be crazy. But… But the angel in the picture was gone and that… that was there." He pointed out the window, and Neal's eyes widened as he stared through the open curtains. There it was, in the garden across the street. A Weeping Angel, complete with hands covering its face.

All the blood drained from his face. "Whatever you do," he whispered, "don't take your eyes off of it."

Young Neal frowned. "How come?"

"They can't move if you're looking at them," Neal said in a low voice.

"But it's never moved at all. Are they supposed to move?"

Neal's brow furrowed, but he didn't take his eyes off of it. "If it's never moved, then how do you know it's not a statue?"

Young Neal let out an irritated sigh. "Because it came out of my *picture*!"

"Oh, right," Neal muttered. "But it's never moved?"

"No," Little Neal said, shaking his head. "Why, can it?"

Neal swallowed hard. "I'm not sure, but I'm going to find out." Why not? He had nothing to lose. If it touched him again, so what? His life was already gone. At least this would keep his mind off the fact that everything he'd ever made for himself had vanished in an instant. And maybe, just maybe if there was an angel here and an angel there… Maybe he could find a way back. He bent down, grabbing the flashlight his younger self had dropped on the floor and stuffing it in his pocket.

"I'm coming with you," his younger self said as Neal moved toward the window, pushing it open.

"Oh, no you're not," he said as he hopped out, landing lightly in the flowerbed. Mom's marigolds would look like shit in the morning, but at least he hadn't destroyed a bubble gum tree.

"Try and stop me," Little Neal retorted, already hoisting himself up.

"Hey," Neal said, frowning down at himself—wow, that sounded weird. "This is dangerous stuff, okay. God sent me to handle this, remember? You go back to bed. And don't you argue with your guardian angel," he said sharply as his miniature self opened his mouth to protest.

A scowl grew on the boy's face. "Fine," he muttered, dropping back down into his bedroom. "But don't blame me if it eats your brains."

Neal snorted. "I think I'll be okay, kid." Or no worse off than he was already, anyway.

"What's your name, anyway?" the boy called out, and Neal came to a halt, looking back over his shoulder.

"Call me Gabriel," he said with a grin.

"I'm Danny. Danny Brooks."

"Nice to meet you, Danny. Now get your butt back in bed before your mother comes up those stairs in her pink nightie and screams at you."

"You doing my mom?"

Neal choked. "What? No!"

Little Neal raised an eyebrow. "Then how do you know about her nightie?"

"I'm an *angel,* okay? We know these things."

Young Neal snorted. "Some angel you are."

Neal shook his head as his younger self disappeared back into his bedroom. He'd been a mouthy one, hadn't he?

Oh hell, he was still a mouthy one.

Across the street, the angel towered menacingly. How could his mother actually think this was just a statue? It was over six feet tall! What self-respecting suburbanite kept a six foot tall angel in their front yard?

Neal took a deep breath as he stepped into the lawn, making sure to keep his eyes locked on the figure. Could they talk? If they could talk, maybe it would tell him how to get home. The Doctor hadn't made it sound like you could get home—he hd said that sometimes they throw you so far you never existed at all—but there was always a chance, right?

His eyes were starting to sting from holding them open, so Neal carefully shut one, making sure the other remained wide open, then reversed the process as he continued to creep toward the statue. He paused about two feet away, heart pounding fast.

"H-hello?" he said, feeling pretty stupid talking to a statue despite knowing that this was no normal piece of stone. "Can you hear me?"

The angel didn't move, but then the Doctor had said they were only alive when no one was looking at them. Maybe they couldn't hear you when you had eyes on them.

Neal swallowed hard, not sure what he should do. There was no way to make contact with the creature if he was looking at it, but if he looked away, who knew what would happen.

Slowly, Neal reached out, laying a gentle hand on the angel's wing—and letting out a loud shout as a hunk of it fell off.

"Oh my God," Neal muttered, holding a hand to his chest, breath coming fast. The angel still didn't move, however, and after a moment Neal began to slowly squat down, eyes still on the angel, using his hands to feel around on the ground. His fingers brushed against rock and he wrapped his hand around it, very slowly rising up again. It didn't feel like super-special rock, and it certainly wasn't hard to break if a piece had crumbled off at his touch. Maybe this wasn't a Weeping Angel after all. Maybe this was all just a very big, very weird coincidence.

"Hey, did you break it?"

Neal glanced over at the words without thinking, eyes widening as a terrified look came over his younger self's face.

"Gabriel, watch out!"

Neal whirled his head back around, letting out and scream and stumbling back away from the stone hand not more than an inch from his face.

Definitely a Weeping Angel, then.

Neal took a shaky breath, slowly backing away from the angel. "Keep your eyes on it, kid," he said in a low voice. "Whatever you do, don't look away. It's obviously active. If you look away, even for a second, it will get you. All it takes is one touch and you're gone. One touch of an angel, that's all it takes."

His younger self let out a little whimper. "Wh-what is it? What is that thing?"

"They're called Weeping Angels," Neal replied as if he had a fucking clue what he was talking about. "And you don't want to mess with them, trust me."

"What will it do to me?"

"It doesn't matter," Neal said shortly. "The point is, it can't do anything at all as long as we're looking at it. A friend of mine told me that the angels are nearly impossible to destroy unless they're starving. Considering that a hunk came off of this one when I barely touched it, I'd say it has an empty belly. Do you have anything I can use to knock it down? An axe, maybe, or even a shovel?"

"We have one of those really big hammers in the garage."

"Perfect," Neal said. "I'll stay here and watch the angel, you go get that hammer—"

His words were cut off as the streetlight above them flickered out.

"Oh my God," Little Neal whispered. "It's turning out the lights."

Neal glanced up at the overcast sky. "You have to go, fast!" he said, locking eyes back on the angel. "Before it can turn them all out! You have to—"

The world went black and Little Neal let out a scream.

"Danny!" Neal yelled, yanking the flashlight out of his pocket and shining it around madly. "Danny, where are you!"

"Here, I'm here!"

Neal turned the beam toward the voice, breath catching as the light found his younger self. A Weeping Angel was hovering over him, less than a foot away.

What would happen if his younger self got thrown back in time? Would current him cease to exist at all? Would he be thrown with his younger self? Would they both just die? Neal didn't want to find out.

"Danny, don't blink!" he yelled as he saw tears reflecting off Little Neal's cheeks. "Whatever you do, Danny, don't blink!"

"O-okay," Young Neal said in a tiny voice, his little body shaking. "It's hard, though."

"I know," Neal said in as calm a tone as he could manage. "But you have to try real hard, okay? One touch is all it takes. One touch of an angel, and you're in trouble. I want you to take a step back, okay, and then another and then—" Neal's flashlight flickered and Danny let out a sob.

Screw it. There wasn't time for this. "Danny, don't blink!" Neal yelled as he sprung forward, doing his best to keep the light trained on his younger self as he reached out wrapping his arms around him and—

BOOM!

The world exploded in a flash of light.

o o o

Neal hit the concrete hard, letting out a loud moan.

"Neal! Oh my God, Neal, are you okay?"

Neal blinked rapidly, trying to clear his fuzzy head. Was that…? No, it couldn't be. It couldn't…

Peter's arms wrapped around him, cradling him against his chest.

"P-Peter?" Neal said, breaking into a cough.

"Just breathe, buddy, You're going to be okay."

"How…" Neal looked around, eyes widening as he took in the piles of rubble all around them. "This… this is the warehouse. I… I'm back in the warehouse."

Peter frowned. "You were always in the warehouse, buddy. You just got caught in the explosion."

"The explosion?" Neal forced himself to sit up, wincing at the pain in your head. "I got caught in an explosion?"

"Actually, I think you *caused* the explosion," a British voice said and the Doctor's face appeared in front of him. "Or so I would guess, from the evidence."

"How could I cause an explosion?" Neal asked, shaking his head. "I don't understand."

"The angel touched you," Peter said, "and then they all just exploded. But not like a bomb. It was like they exploded in light. The same light that was coming out of the Doctor's box."

The Doctor's eyebrow shot up. "My box was glowing? Hm, that's interesting…"

"But… But I was gone," Neal said. "I went back in time. I saw the young me… And… and the angel was there. The one that touched me. Only it was old then"

"Really?" the Doctor said, sounding interested. "You saw the young you."

Neal nodded. "Uh-huh."

"And the angel was there, too. Where did the angel come from?"

"I—he—young me—had a dream about it, or that's what he—I—whatever—said. He told me he drew it and it came out of the picture."

"Out of the picture?" Peter questioned, looking confused.

"That which holds the image of an angel becomes an angel," the Doctor murmured. "So tell me, Neal. What happened with young you and the angel?"

"I… I went to try and talk with it, to see if I could get back here somehow. I told young me to stay in his room, but he didn't, of course. I should have known he wouldn't. He is *me*, after all. Then the angel turned out the lights and we couldn't see. I had a flashlight, but by the time I got it out, the angel almost had Danny. There was no time to do anything, so I just ran and grabbed him… That was when everything exploded."

"And this Danny?" the Doctor questioned. "Who was he?"

"Huh? Oh, he was me. I grew up in Witness Protection. I went by Danny Brooks." Neal gave a short laugh. "He thought I was an angel, come to save him from that angel."

"Ah," the Doctor said, a smile blooming on his face. "Well, that clears everything up."

"Really?" Peter said sarcastically. "Because I don't really feel that way. Would you care to explain?"

The Doctor let out a laugh. "It's a paradox! All those years ago, the Weeping Angels used a very sensitive little boy—and I mean that in a psychic way—to bring themselves back into existence on Earth. Then, twenty years later, those exact same angels ended up in a warehouse with the boy they used to bring themselves back. But he's Neal now, and they don't recognize him, and they touch him! A perfect paradox!"

"I still don't get it," Peter said.

"Me neither," Neal put in, rubbing his head.

"The angels feed on the energy left behind from a life that could have been but never was. That's why they throw people back in time. They don't need to kill you, they just need to make sure you never become, well, you. But they couldn't send Neal back before his birth, because he was the one they used to bring themselves into existence! So instead, he got thrown back to the time when his younger self drew the first angel."

"Okay," Neal said slowly, "I guess I get that. But how did I get back to now?"

"Well, creating a paradox is dangerous stuff. There were two Neals running around, and that isn't possible. You crossed your own timeline, which is never good. Created a whole new existence with two Neals. It was shaky, though, as universes built on impossible things usually are. When you touched your old self, it fell apart. You were flung back to your own reality and the angels got caught in the blast. My TARDIS did, too. I must have been flying through the vortex at the same moment the rip exploded and taken on some of the energy—that light you saw. The TARDIS knew there was a problem and took me where I needed to go to fix it. Here and now." He chuckled. "Well, as close as she could manage to get me. We materialized in the atmosphere and were free falling. She made sure we crashed in the one spot that would get us sent to the FBI evidence warehouse." He smirked, glancing over toward the police box. "Oh you are a sexy girl, aren't you? Rawr!"

Neal winced. "Right… So does this mean that the angels never existed? I mean, there was only one angel there and after all that, younger me wouldn't draw any more, right?"

"Alternate universe, Neal," the Doctor said with a shrug. "That version of you never existed now. If he did, you would have remembered it happening. Though it must have left its mark somehow. I could smell the time vortex on you the minute I climbed out of that box, and then there was the warning."

Neal frowned. "What warning?"

"In your head. 'Danny, don't blink.' I'm assuming that's what you shouted to yourself in the other reality?"

"Yeah," Neal said slowly. "Actually, it is…"

"Well, there you go. That was why the angels picked you all those years ago—because you're a little bit psychic. They came to you in your dreams. You said you were a conman, right? Are you a good one?"

"The best," Peter said. "Unfortunately."

The Doctor laughed. "See? That's why. You always read people perfectly, don't you? It's a useful skill for a conman, being psychic."

"But if all of it happened in an alternate universe," Neal said slowly, then how can I remember—"

"Don't worry about it," the Doctor interrupted. "It's timey wimey wibbly wobbly stuff. Just… don't worry about it."

"Yeah," Neal said tiredky, "I probably don't want to know anyway. So… Are we safe from the angels, now?"

"Thanks to you, Neal," the Doctor replied with a smile, he straightening his bow tie as he moved toward his police box. "Well, I better be off. The TARDIS should have finished repairing herself by now. It was good to meet you two."

"The pleasure was all ours," Peter said dryly. "Note my sarcasm."

"Shut up, Peter," Neal said, holding out his hand. "It was good to meet you, too, Doctor."

The Doctor grasped it then leaned forward, air-kissing on either side of Neal's face. "Farewell, Danny boy! The one who was saved by the touch of an angel!" With one last wave he disappeared into the box, door slamming shut behind him.

They stood there for a minute, just looking at each other.

"So, do you really think that thing—" Peter's words were cut off by a sort of low screeching sound. Neal's eyes grew wide as the police box began to slowly vanish, finally leaving only the crate it was packed in behind.

"Wow," Peter said after a moment.

"That about covers it," Neal said, shaking his head in disbelief.

Peter glanced around, grimacing a little. "So… What am I supposed to tell Patterson happened here?"

"That a Doctor with two hearts popped out of a police box that's bigger on the inside then an alien race disguised as stone angels blew up in the middle of the warehouse, obviously," Neal replied with a smirk.

They stared at each other for a moment, then burst into laughter.

"Yeah… Terrorist bombs? Triggered by the weird blue box?"

"Sounds like a good story to me."

The End!


End file.
